


Baking is Harder Than It Looks (and It Looks Pretty Damn Hard)

by WanderingAlice



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baking, Bucky can't cook, Cooking, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, but he tries, kitchen mishaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has an annual Avengers Christmas Party, and everyone is expected to bring something to share. Bucky is a disaster in the kitchen, but he wants to bake something  rather than bring store-bought cookies. The result is surprisingly adorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baking is Harder Than It Looks (and It Looks Pretty Damn Hard)

**Author's Note:**

> This was concocted as a fic exchange with Sourdough_pup, to explore our dueling headcannons. I believe that Bucky is as big a disaster in the kitchen as I am, while she sees him as being good at cooking. So I suggested we each write a fic and see how it goes. I was working on my Marvel Bang fic, so we put this off until that was over. And then we were busy, so we put it off some more, and suddenly it was the holidays. So we decided to make it a holiday-themed fic exchange. This is my contribution. 
> 
> Please go read Sourdough_pup's wonderful fic she wrote for this exchange! You can find it here on tumblr.

“I can bake!” Steve was frowning across the kitchen at Bucky, continuing a discussion that had been going for several days - ever since they’d been told that all the Avengers were expected to bring something to Clint’s annual Christmas party. “Really.”

“You can cook,” Bucky retorted. “There’s a difference.”

“Boys,” Natasha laughed at them both, wishing she hadn’t brought up the party, or at least the part about everyone bringing some sort of baked goods to share. “You can just go out and buy something. That’s what Tony always does.”

“Tony buys expensive cake from famous bakeries,” Steve told her. “Like, thousand-dollar cake. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say Safeway cookies aren’t going to measure up to that.”

“Okay, so, ask Bruce or me to bake something. Because, I hate to tell you, but last year Steve set the kitchen on fire when he tried to make brownies.”

Bucky blinked, then turned to his friend. “You _set the kitchen on fire_?”

Steve shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t used to the electric stove. Or Stark’s crazy oven. That thing has like five thousand knobs.”

“Buttons,” Bucky corrected. “Knobs you turn, buttons you push.”

“Buttons, then,” Steve glared at him. “And I’ve learned how to use them all by now.”

“Again, you can _cook_ ,” Bucky told him. “And usually you don’t follow half the recipe and make it up as you go. Baking doesn’t work like that. If you don’t follow the directions, it turns into a disaster real quick.”

“Right, and you can do it? Remember that time you blew up pudding?” Steve retorted. “’Cause I do. I also remember Mrs. Thomas from downstairs panicking and thinking the whole place was going to burn down.”

“Says the man who almost blew up the microwave with chicken.”

“Chicken?” Natasha asked. “I hadn’t heard that one before. What happened?”

“Turns out chicken pops in the microwave. Like popcorn, only… meat. And microwaves aren’t just fast substitutes for ovens. Though, in my defense, Tony told me I could cook anything in them,” Steve said.

Natasha shook her head in despair. “At this rate, neither of you will be able to cook. I’m surprised you don’t just always get takeout.”

“Hey!” Steve looked slightly offended at that. “I can cook! I just had to get used to the kitchen!”

“You just can’t bake,” Bucky reminded him.

“Care to do better?” Steve asked him, challengingly. Bucky considered it.

“You know what? Yeah. I’ll do it.”

And that was how, several days later, Steve came home from a run to find Bucky in the kitchen with a cookbook and large amounts of sugar, baking soda, eggs, and flour. The kitchen looked like it had exploded.

 

“Buck? What the hell?” Steve asked, gingerly stepping over debris of what might once have been cookies.

“Stark’s damn stove is too hot. And welcome home.” Bucky was standing by the stove, covered in flour.

Steve smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks. But that doesn’t explain the explosion.”

“Ah, well… it didn’t explode exactly. But I forgot about the cookies, and didn’t hear the timer, so they burned. And then I tried to grab them from the oven, but I forgot that Stark fixed my arm so it’s heat sensitive now, so it hurt, and I dropped the cookies, and then I tripped over the tray and fell onto a bag of flour, which did sorta explode. And now I’m trying to clean it all up,” Bucky explained. “But the first batch turned out alright.” He pointed to one dozen cookies cooling on the counter.

“Chocolate chip?” Steve asked, sniffing them.

“Your favorite… right?” The hesitation at the end of the sentence was a reminder that there were still some things Bucky didn’t remember quite right. Steve was just happy that he remembered anything at all. And even happier that he was here, with him, for Christmas.

“Right,” he said, and gave Bucky another kiss just because he could. The surviving cookies were delicious.

 

“Jesus _fuck_!” Bucky cursed, the pain in his voice causing Steve to jump off the couch and rush in to their kitchen. There, he found Bucky at the sink, running his flesh arm under cold water.

“What happened?” Steve asked him, coming over to stand beside his lover.

“Burned my arm taking the cookies out of the oven,” Bucky said. “I lifted the tray too high, too fast, and burned it on the edge of the door.” Steve could see the skin turning pink already and hissed in sympathy.

“That looks bad. Here,” Steve gently drew him away from the sink and over to the counter, where he pulled out their first-aid kit and began applying burn cream to the wound. “We can get the doctors to look at it over at the tower tomorrow, if it still hurts.”

“Thanks.” Bucky sighed. “Stupid. That was a stupid thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Steve said mildly. “It was pretty stupid.”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“That’s my line.”

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Steve asked. Bucky grinned. Ignoring the bandage Steve was wrapping around his arm, Bucky leaned over the counter to capture Steve’s mouth in an aggressive kiss. Steve’s startled noise gave him an opening to make the kiss even deeper and his hands reached out and grabbed hold of Steve’s shirt, dragging him partway onto the counter. The cookie sheets went flying, along with the sugar cookies on them, but neither man noticed.

 

The next day, Steve came home to a quiet house. He’d become used to hearing a clatter in the kitchen as Bucky experimented with baking, but today there was nothing. In the darkened kitchen, he found a note stuck to the fridge.

_Gone to the store. Out of milk. Back by dinner._

Steve shook his head. They’d had a whole gallon of milk the day before, but there was clear evidence that Bucky had been baking once again. Two tins of ‘acceptable’ cookies sat on the counter, while the trash can was filled with the charred remains of his mistakes. Steve shook his head, but smiled, proud of his lover for trying so hard to get this right. Moving the cookies to the side, he set about cooking dinner for them both. As Bucky had said before, about halfway through the recipe, he ignored the directions and started substituting ingredients. Before too long, the kitchen was filled with delicious smells. Mishaps with modern technology aside, Steve actually was a pretty good cook. He could bake too, though he rarely did. They hadn’t had enough money for more than the basics more often than not back in the ‘30s, and then there had been the war, and Bucky had fallen. It was only after Steve woke up from the ice that he’d had the money or the time to try baking, and even then he was more often on missions than at home.

“Mmm, that smells good,” Bucky said, coming into the kitchen with two bags of groceries. “What’re you making?”

“Chicken and Dumplings,” Steve told him, swatting his hand away as he went to dip a finger in the mixing bowl.

“Why not?” Bucky asked, with an impish grin. “I let you taste everything _I_ make.”

“After it’s cooked!” Steve blocked him again, this time rapping his metal knuckles with his wooden spoon.

“Oww,” Bucky whined, bringing his hand up to his mouth and sucking on the ‘bruised’ knuckles.

Steve knew very well that he hadn’t hurt him. “You big baby. That wouldn’t even have hurt your real hand.”

Bucky made his eyes wide and looked at Steve pitifully. “You’re a mean man, Steve Rogers.”

“I’m the mean man that’s making you dinner,” Steve retorted. Bucky laughed.

“Okay, I guess I’m alright.”

“Good. Put that away and help me cut the chicken,” Steve ordered, and Bucky obliged.

A few moments later, the silence was broken by a quiet “Ouch.” Steve looked over to see Bucky sucking on one of his fingers, several drops of blood staining the cutting board and the knife.

“Bucky,” he sighed, going over to him. “Can’t even cut chicken without hurting yourself. Remind me why we let you play with knives for a living?”

“I’m perfectly good with weapons,” Bucky whined around his finger. “It’s just kitchen knives that throw me off.”

Steve shook his head. “Right. Well, come here.” He pulled the first aid kit off the counter. “Let’s disinfect that before you get salmonella. Then you can stir the broth while I finish with the chicken, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky told him. “I don’t like handling raw meat anyway.” He wrinkle his nose when he looked back at the uncooked chicken. “It’s slimy.”

“Says the guy who routinely deals with aliens and monsters from mad scientists’ labs.”

“Those aren’t slimy… most of the time!”

“I’m making you deal with the next one that spits slime.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”

While they were distracted the broth began to boil, and Steve just got it off the stove in time before it boiled over and coated the stove in steaming chicken stock and vegetables. Later that night they tried the cookies, to find that Bucky had unfortunately substituted sugar with salt.

 

Decorating for the holidays was one of Steve’s favorite things about December. This year he went all-out, buying a live tree and all kinds of ornaments and knick-knacks for around the house. He thought longingly of his mother’s old ornaments, the ones he and Bucky had always hung around the apartment back in Brooklyn when they’d been too poor to afford a tree. They’d come over with her from Ireland, one of the few things she’d brought with her. And they were probably in a museum somewhere now.

“Hey, Steve, a little help?” Bucky called from the kitchen.

“Coming.” Steve put one last house in the tiny Christmas Village on the mantle, then went to help his lover. In the kitchen, he found Bucky balanced precariously on the old rickety stool Steve had found when he’d moved into the place. “Woah, hey, careful Buck!” Steve grabbed his lover around the waist, steadying him as he reached for something in the top cupboard.

“Just a sec…. Got it!” Bucky grinned, holding aloft a tin of red sprinkles. Unfortunately, the movement overbalanced him and he fell, tumbling off the stool and onto Steve’s chest. Steve staggered back under the unexpected weight, hands reflexively clutching at Bucky and pulling him tight against himself. For a few moments they teetered there, almost collapsing to the floor, until Steve caught his balance and righted them.

“Ok Buck?” he asked, running his hands up and down Bucky’s sides as if to check for injuries.

“Fine.” Bucky sounded a little breathless, but he turned to smile at Steve, reassuring him. “Just fine.” He leaned his head onto Steve’s shoulder, resting there for a moment. “You’re warm.”

“I’ve been by the fire,” Steve told him. Bucky hummed in response. Almost automatically, Steve wrapped his arms around his lover, tugging him closer. He could hear Christmas music in the background, and the crackling of the fire in the next room, and the beating of his own heart in his ears. As it slowed he relaxed against Bucky, slowly letting his own head rest against his lover’s, inhaling the clean soap-and-gun-powder smell of his hair. In that moment, he didn’t care about his mother’s old ornaments, or the presents he had yet to wrap and put under the tree. All he wanted for Christmas was this. Just this. Bucky in his arms, safe, and happy, and whole.

 

On the day before Christmas, Steve woke up to delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen. When he stretched out an arm, he found that the other side of the bed was empty. Which, his sleepy brain told him, explained the food smells. Bucky was up to something in the kitchen. Yawning, Steve pulled on some pants and headed out to the kitchen. There, he found Bucky standing over the stove with an oven mitt over each hand, waiting to take a large casserole dish out of the oven.

“That smells good,” Steve told him, heading for the coffee maker. “What is it?”

“Cinnamon rolls,” Bucky told him. “I found a recipe. Um… don’t look in the sink.”

“Well, when you say that…” Steve couldn’t help it. He looked in the sink. “Ah… what was that? It… wasn’t living, was it?”

“Punk,” Bucky said, shooting him a glare. “It was supposed to be filling for the cinnamon rolls.”

“Ah. I… see.” It looked nothing like filling. Steve knew this recipe, it was _his_ recipe. The filling was mostly pecans, butter, and sugar. The blackened mess in the pan _might_ have been sugar. Once. Before it was burnt beyond all recognition. Little lumps stuck out of it, possibly the remains of the pecans. “Left it on the stove too long?”

Bucky nodded, watching the timer. “But I’m not making that mistake again. I’m getting these out right on time.”

Steve sniffed. The smell of charred pecan was a little overwhelming this close to it, but he thought he could detect the scent of something else burning too. “Buck? How long have they been in the oven?”

“Almost forty-five minutes. Why?”

“They’re only supposed to go in for thirty.”

“ _Fuck_.” Bucky growled, yanking the oven door open.

They managed to scrape the rolls off the bottom of the pan, and cut off the burned bits around the edges. What they were left with was more of a cinnamon roll casserole, but it was delicious.

“You’re getting better,” Steve told Bucky when he found his friend looking dejectedly at char. “It was only partly burnt this time. And what we could eat was great. Really.”

“I’m never gonna get this by the party tomorrow,” Bucky sighed. “We might as well go buy something.”

“No.” Steve shook his head. “Not an option. Come on, Buck. You can do it. I can even sit here and help, if you want.”

“I wanted to do it on my own…” Bucky sighed, staring at the pan in his hands.

“And you will. I’ll just be here for moral support. And to remind you if the timer goes off.”

“And you think that’ll make the difference?” Bucky asked. Steve nodded.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

“…Alright then.”

 

That evening, they gathered all the ingredients together and put them out on the counter. Steve took his place at the table, close enough to notice if Bucky was doing something really wrong, but far enough away that his lover wouldn’t feel crowded or like he was intruding. Then he pulled out his sketchbook and got to work, checking every so often as Bucky measured out the flour, baking soda and salt carefully. He pretended not to notice when Bucky accidentally put in too much brown sugar, but he also didn’t put in quite enough granulated sugar, so it evened out well enough. The rest of the ingredients seemed to go in alright, but Steve hadn’t really been worried. Bucky seemed to get into the most trouble with bake time, and things being set on fire.

When it came time for the first cookie sheet to go in the oven, Steve tensed but did not look up. This was Bucky’s show. Ten minutes later, the timer went off, and Steve prepared himself for damage control. He need not have worried. Bucky smoothly removed the tray from the oven, releasing the warm, sweet smell of chocolate-chip cookies out into the house. With the second batch in the oven, Bucky turned to slide the cookies from the sheet and onto the raised wire racks to cool. Steve crossed stealthily over to the counter, reaching out a hand to grab one of the fresh cookies. Bucky’s metal hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“Not yet,” Bucky ordered. “I’ll bring you some when they’re ready.”

“They’re baked,” Steve argued. “That’s ready.”

“That’s not ready. That’s lava. You’ll burn your tongue.”

Steve rolled his eyes but retreated back to the table, where he was putting the finishing touches on a drawing of Bucky at the stove. A few minutes later, after the third tray of dough was baking the oven, Bucky presented him with a plate of cookies and an anxious expression. Steve smiled encouragingly at him, selected one, and took a bite. Bucky bit his lip, eyes on Steve’s face.

“Mmmm.” Steve smiled, or at least smiled as much as he could with a mouth full of cookie. When he’d chewed and swallowed, he tried again. “It’s great Buck!”

“Really?” Bucky asked, not sure.

“Really. The best cookie I’ve ever had.”

Bucky crossed his arms and frowned. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Honest, Buck. They’re great. Have one and see for yourself,” Steve insisted, holding the plate out to his lover. Bucky sighed, fingers hovering over it, before carefully taking one. He held it up and looked at it critically, frowning as the gooey cookie nearly tore apart in his hand. Then he ripped a piece off. Put it in his mouth. His eyes widened. He took another bite.

“It’s good!” he said, surprised.

“I said so, didn’t I?” Steve grinned at him. “You did it.”

“Yeah.” Bucky laughed. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Steve rewarded him with a chocolate-chip flavored kiss.

 

(Bucky’s cookie were a hit at the Avengers’ Christmas Party, and were requested again and again at their informal gatherings throughout the year. With Steve’s encouragement, he eventually branched out to other cookies and then to other baked goods. Before long, he stopped accidentally turning things to charcoal, and soon enough the only mishaps in the kitchen happened when they distracted each other. After the second fire, they had to make it a rule - no sex in the kitchen.)

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps it should be mentioned that I have personally been a victim of almost all of Bucky's kitchen mishaps in this story. (I've never had sex in the kitchen or fallen on a bag of flour, but the rest of it is all from real-life examples. And yes, I have exploded pudding. Twice. The second time I also set myself on fire. I should never be allowed unsupervised in a kitchen.)


End file.
